


The Vindictive Growth of Wildflowers

by MelpomeneMaple



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Soft Sweet & Sad, Vandalism, We're trying this again folks, so anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21590392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelpomeneMaple/pseuds/MelpomeneMaple
Summary: It's just like when you say a word too many times in your own head. Familiarity becomes foreign, and one might start feeling homesick for the unknown.In which falling in love with your best friend isn't as straightforward as it should be.
Relationships: Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Comments: 9
Kudos: 39





	1. Of the problem over solstice nights.

**Author's Note:**

> So, its been a long couple weeks. But anyway, lets give it another go.

It was the wind, he told himself, what disturbed him. A gust of wind that hit from behind, and made him shiver. Had him recoil into himself, dizzy and unnerved. He’d felt sick for a moment, as though his throat was being tied into knots and a short nasty shrill had escaped from his harmonica. 

He’d been building up a melody, mindless and easy. Holding a note he could already feel the next one bubbling up, sometimes creating tension and others to resolve and to sooth. There was never any need to think through it, to give words to the patterns he could weave through his breath and through his fingers. He’d rather let the melody flow, follow whatever course felt more natural, under the unspoken assumption that, in the end, it would wind somewhere safe at sea. 

He was plucked from that stream, hooked through his throat and pulled away, without explanation and devoid of mercy, by the feeling of the gushing wind against his nape. 

His instrument shrieked. He lost all trace of the melody, and all the notes he’d played before became disconnected and astray. Then he’d felt the need to turn away from his friends, in order to hide his embarrassment over spoiling the melody. He fixated on the texture of dirt and pebbles, their shadows deepened by the bonfire’s glow. Soft chimes exhaled from his harmonica as he regained his breath. He stretched his neck to get rid of the last traces of tension, and resumed playing. They must have minded the interruption, as it had stretched for long enough. 

His main audience, Moomin and Snorkmaiden, had been rapt in their dancing, swaying along with the music, in a close and playful embrace. Hand in hand, and shoulder to shoulder, spinning in odd circles and uneven steps, occasionally laughing. They mustn’t have felt the draft, thought Snufkin, given how much they must be enjoying themselves. It was a perfect scene. The night glowed in hues of blue, bright under a full moon and a clear sky full of stars, and a small fire remained from the midsummer bonfire, keeping a comfortably warm atmosphere. Snufkin inhaled the smell of hickory smoke, and exuded a melody that was meant to be as warm, and fickle. That was meant for them to dance to. Most of the guests had gone home and only his close friends remained, lulled by the music, and the fire, and the wine. Sniff and Little My sat to a side by what was left of the appetizers, while the Snork was left snoring, with his back to a tree. Then Moomin had taken Snorkmaiden by the hand and directed her to the middle point between the bonfire and the stump Snufkin had taken for a chair, where they had taken to dancing. 

For years and years they had established this score. It was a moment lived a hundred times over. Unceremonious, and frankly to this point, unsurprising. Snufkin knew, without looking, that Sniff would pick up the crumbs from their plates with a licked finger and immediately he could picture Little My rolling her eyes, focused on her own task of using the table cloth to dry a pitcher large enough for her to sleep in. He’d seen them dance plenty times before, and this time could be no different. It was a chill, nothing more and nothing less. A chill that happened to coincide with the moment Moomin slid his palm from a spot just under Snorkmaiden’s ear, all the way across her cheek, as he leaned in to press his snout against her’s. It was the first time he’d kissed her through the night, and watching them, Snufkin felt as though he intruded in a gravely intimate scene, where he could never hold a place. 

It was the wind, and the cold, that had shaken him. A flat note that hurt his pride. 

When the draft died down he continued to play, with closed eyes from then on, taking special attention to not let the shifts of weather spoil his tunes. Moominmamma made a comment, the following morning, over breakfast, about how the later portion of the party had shifted to a rather melancholic disposition. 

✵

“Did you have fun last night, Snufkin?” Moomin asks, not looking very aware that he might get a negative answer. The mumrik lifted his gaze away from the running water, plunging, instead, into the troll’s bright blue irises. His expression was cool and collected, in a way that wasn’t empty but perhaps transparent. As if, trying to read him, Moomin would rather become aware of the distance from where he sat to where the forest starts, and to the mountain range, and then the vast continent he’s only ever know through his father’s maps and stories. He knows that Snufkin knows these distant places. And he’s aware of the texture of fresh grass against his fingers, itchy and rough, but soft all the same. Then, as Snufkin looks away, he draws back into himself, becoming self conscious of how sweaty he is, of every grass stain in his fur, and every patch of dried mud sticking to him.

He tells himself not to be sheepish, but then he thinks of the way that every woman in his life would reprimand him for his cruddy appearance, which in place has him questioning whether Snufkin ever judges him that way. It’s a fruitless trail of thought, and quite a silly one at that. The mumrik in question was covered in mud splatters, his robe tattered and sun bleached. Moomin thinks of how odd the sunlight could be, as it washed the color off Snufkin’s worn gown, but deepened the tone of his skin, until his cheekbones and forearms resembled the veneer of the walnut desk stationed by the window in his room. He starts to fidget, picking the strands of grass between his legs and throwing them back down. Snufkin takes his sweet time to answer. 

“It was a lovely night”, he lied. Or didn’t lie. The mumrik kept a small smile on his lips and nodded to himself. He rubbed his thumb to the handle of his liner, further considering the question. The night had been very lovely, as rarely did a full moon and a solstice coincide. Never mind the wind.  _ Never mind Snorkmaiden _ . The thought tasted bitter on his tongue. “You seemed to be having a whole lot of fun, Moomintroll.”

“Oh! Of course I did,” His best friend beamed, “your new songs were very beautiful.” 

Moominmamma’s remark haunted Snufkin. He reacted far more bashfully than usual to the compliment, pushing his chin towards his left shoulder, and becoming quiet again. He smiled and looked away as well, adamant not to stare. It was underlyingly satisfying to achieve such a reaction from his stoich friend. 

The golden notes of sunset had crept up on the pair. After a day hiking through the lonely mountains, they were tired, and hungry, and Snufkin had decided to fish for a couple minnows. Moomin had decided to stay with him, rather than walk the forty meters up to moominhouse and have a proper dinner with his family, on the insistence that a fat carp would bite. So far, they had spent over an hour sitting by the river bank, making loose conversation every other while. Not a single fish had bitten the snare, and no particular topic had hooked their interest, but the troll had yet to lose hope either would happen. 

“I do wish we had more time to talk”, Moomin continued, picking on the grass, “but then again, everyone else would have been left without any music to dance to. Although, by the end of the night, I was the one doing most of the dancing, and Snorkmaiden, so really I’m thankful of your performance. A lovely one, at that.” 

Snufkin’s mouth became dry. Another blow, of the northern wind, sent a wave of goosebumps through his skin. He watched his friend lift up his palm, and let the breeze carry a fistfull of grass strands towards the forest, following the same route that he would, come winter. Snufkin’s right shoulder tensed, as he became increasingly aware of the centimeters that were left between them. He could feel the pressure in the air become charged, perhaps in foreboding of a storm. He felt much the same building up inside his lungs, shaping into words. They spilled out of him before he had a chance to process them. 

“The wind is starting to feel cold.” He stated. It was his tone that felt chilling. 

“Oh.”

He hadn’t meant for that to sound like a threat, but it was received as such nonetheless. 

“No it hasn’t, really”, Moomin raised his voice slightly, giving perhaps a little too much intent to his words. He shrugged, as if he didn’t mind, but a nervous glint didn’t leave his eyes. He curled in both legs and wrapped his arms around them, resisting the urge to hide his face by rather lifting up his chin and looking around the valley. The leaves on every pine tree were still lively and green, and the sky was bright despite the hour. His best friend couldn’t be leaving that early in the year, he told himself,  _ which doesn’t mean that he’s not _ thinking  _ about leaving _ . A pinch of sadness had only started to settle in his stomach when he heard a soft chuckle from his side, followed by a light-hearted murmur. 

“You just don’t feel it because you’re all fuzzy.” 

His ears perked in indignation, and he turned to find Snufkin smiling, with his eyes still fixed down on the water. Something in his semblance was different from the moment prior, but it was difficult to tell precisely how. Snufkin’s silent language was more of the subdued sort, but in these moment Moomin recognized a playful note among his poise. He wanted to breach into it, or alternatively, taunt it out of him. He frowned, in feigned offence, straightening his back and letting out a scoff. 

“Or maybe,” He retaliated, “you need to patch up the holes in that old smock!” 

After a single beat, Snufkin started openly laughing, loudly and unraveled. He threw his head back in his shoulders and shared a look with his friend. He laughed too, and soon they settled on a comfortable quietude. Whatever tension had formed between them, had dissolved. Around them, the sky refashioned its vibrant golds and reds into subtle lilacs and blues as the sun had cloaked itself behind the mountains. Despite how bright it still appeared, the day was coming to a close, and the wind had, in fact, grown a couple degrees colder. The murmik yawned. He stretched his back and shifted his posture, rolling his shoulders and resting his weight on his right hand, while his left held on to the fishing rod. He turned to Moomin with a smile still in place, and told him. 

“I guess with you being so eager to dance, I could only oblige with the music.” Moomin conjured a smile, trying, without avail, to catch up on the subtext of whatever his friend was trying to convey. He couldn’t be all too sure whether the sentence had been at all intended cordiality or animosity, and it left him at loss for any answer. He struggle not to let himself seethe over it, reminding himself that he knew on which grounds he stood regarding Snufkin. Instead, he picked up on the more obvious line of conversation. 

“Do you enjoy dancing, Snufkin?.” He asked, to keep himself from thinking. 

“Of course.” The vagabond perked up. He was brimmed with relief as easily as the mumrik smirked with his answer. Moomin shared his smile, letting his previous waggery fester. There was a certain confidence in his voice, that the moomin couldn’t help but tease. 

“So you actually know how to dance!” 

Snufkin squinted, before he tore his gaze away and answered. “Of course I do.” He huffed, but a faint smile endured in his lips. “A nephrurus merchant taught me to waltz, swing, quickstep, mambo  _ and _ tango, a couple years back over the winter.” His confidence had evolved into a full brag, but it all blew over the moomin’s head, who instead, fixated on a different detail. 

“What’s a nephrurus?” He asked, feeling a hollow form on his gut. He wondered what mamma might have made back at home, his faith on the fish wavering a little. He bit the inside of his cheek, as he listened to Snufkin. 

“They have thick, scaled tails, and oddly shaped fingers. They live much further south than I’ve ever traveled, but this particular nephrurus happened to be a wandering soul, just like me.”

Moomin nodded, rapt in thought. Not of the south, or the characters that Snufkin had met there, or the instances that he had shared with them. Those were topics he forbid himself, consciously and with rigor. He thought only of dancing. He released his knees and leaned into his left hand, turning his head to face his friend. He’d seen the mumrik dance before, when they were younger, but those instances had grown scarce over the years. It was as though age had only made the mumrik more cautious. Always dignified and insightful, in a way he quite admired, at the same time that he yearned for the playfulness they had shared in their youth. That Snufkin might be sharing down south, but he wouldn’t dwell on that. 

“You’ll have to teach me all those dances someday.” He said. 

Snufkin turned to him as well. He felt his throat swell up, noticing how closely Moomin’s hand had landed to his own, then lifting his stare to meet warm blue eyes, that seemed to absorb the last strays of light from the twilight. 

“Of course.” He let out in a small voice, frozen in place. His fingers filled up with electricity. His mind became warily absent, and his lips clamped shut, trying to drown the sudden whirlwind of emotion at bay. He felt guilty, for the most part. About the nephrurus. About Snorkmaiden. He felt anxious and exposed. But he also felt greatly excited, without cue. He felt threatened by the prospect of a smile forming on his face. But then,  _ thankfully _ , Moomin turned away, and exclaimed, before he had the proper time to process all of that. 

“You’ve caught something!”

He immediately regained composure, lifting his right hand back to the pole, and using his left to real up the catch. Turns out, Moomin was right. 

✵

They roasted the carp over the campfire, after Snufkin had scaled and gutted it. The unlucky critter had been old, and well fed, and, along with a serving of peas and carrots, meaty enough for the both of them. Moomin was thankful for the catch, famished as he was, and for the way food seemed to ease conversation. He and Snufkin ate eagerly, while exchanging guesses on which parts of his father's memoirs where true, the mumrik being far more granting than the explorer’s son. Snufkin made little bows of grass as they talked, placing one after the other in a neat little pile. It had nearly reached a considerable size, when a gust of wind blew them away. Moomin shivered slightly, watching them go, getting lost in the black of night. 

Once their fire died out, Moomin walked back to moominhouse, and Snufkin settled in his tent. The northern wind roared through the valley, stirring up the trees and howling against every nook and window. The rest of the night he spent awake, obsessed over the doubt of whether the summer solstice was meant to have the shortest of nights, or the longest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has anybody read In the Orchard, by A.C. Swinburne?


	2. In which Snufkin wears a wreath of weeds

They left before dawn. Moomin had been awake long before that, waiting for the moment when an airy note broke through the silence. He jumped up from bed, taking the bag he packed the evening prior, and climbed down from the hanging stairs of his window before any light made its way back to Moominvalley. 

The early morning was frosty and dark. Snufkin and him barely exchanged nods before they started walking. They passed the junction that lead to the mountain range, and instead headed east, towards a series of meadows interlaced with streams where they met the first colors of the morning. As the sun got in their eyes, they turned south, following the course of the water until they reached an orchard where they settled for breakfast, courtesy of Moominmamma and whomever had planted the pear trees. 

Moomin liked the orchard. He liked the way light filtered through the thousands of small gaps between the leaves, and the pears were very sweet. He liked looking at the trees while Snufkin played songs on his harmonica. He would let his mind drift away, and idly wonder if this was the route his friend would take when he traveled south, or whether there would still be pears during the winter. He had wanted to stay for a little longer, but just as he started falling asleep Snufkin stood up and gathered their things back into his bag.They continued south for a couple more hours, under the unforgiving afternoon sun. 

Despite the breeze, Moomintroll could feel his fur dampen with sweat. “I’m positive that Moomins are simply not suited to be out in the sun like this.”

“You’re being whiny.” Snufkin said, not turning his head back to speak. “You’ve been on hundreds of treks with me. And some more without.”

“ _ Whiny _ .” Moomin repeated, indignant. He huffed, once angrily, and then continued to huff with every dragged step. The mumrik’s back stiffened ahead of him, but he continued walking without hitch. 

Moomin smiled. “Oh Snufkin.” He panted. “I think I might….I think I...might….” He took a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. He waited for a moment, and effectively Snufkin turned back, reluctantly. 

“You oaf.” He told him, with a subtle smile, and then he took his hat off his head, and placed onto Moomin’s. As soon as it happened, the mumrik was back on track, marching on. Moomin watched him walk for a couple seconds, adjusting the hat by its rim. 

✵

Sometime around four, the pair reached a pond, which was thankfully surrounded by wide trees to led them their shade, as they sat down to rest. 

“We’ll set camp here.”, Snufkin announced, with a voice not void of mischief. 

He immediately busied himself unpacking his tent, directing Moomin to clear the space from any rocks that might be nasty to sleep on. They gathered kindle, and set a trap so that they might have some fish for supper. After camp was set, the mumrik sat by the pond, and started gathering dirt. Whilst he was set to the task, Moomin fiddled with his hat, turning it around in his hands. He focused on the wreath, frowning at the stinging leaves, and the sparse, small, purple flowers that stemmed from them. 

“Snufkin,” he dragged out the word with mild concern. “You know these are weeds, right?” 

“What’s a matter, Moomintroll?”, his friend called back from besides the pond. “Don’t you think they’re pretty?”

Moomin winced, and made a constricted noise, but nonetheless he looked closer. He noted the striped pattern, miniscule and bright, among the prickly petals. He looked away in time to see Snufkin walk back towards camp, and let two large fistfuls of red mud fall into the kettle where they usually brewed coffee. Moomin’s anguish became radically more pronounced in his features. Snufkin, quite the contrary, looked infinitely pleased with himself. 

“Weeds,” the mumrik stated, approaching his friend. “Are only looked down upon because they don’t need any gardeners to grow and spread. They’re incredibly resilient, to a degree of cynicism. They grow anywhere and everywhere, and however they want. Particularly these,  _ Facinorosus Thistle _ ” he enunciated with pride, and began picking the at the flowers of his wreath. “Even the most experienced of gardeners can’t keep them at bay, which I think hurts their pride, and makes  _ me  _ like them  _ more _ .”

Once he’d finished talking, he’d gathered hundreds of tiny seeds in his palm, which he proceeded to dump in with the mud. “Come help me”, he called.

Moomin stood and walked disheartedly towards him, as he was stirring into the kettle, and soon they began working on shaping the sludge into little balls, which were later set to dry under the sun, and over a red handkerchief. 

They watched the sun set in silence. In the twilight they started a campfire, over which they roasted minnows and brewed coffee. Moomin skipped on the later. 

✵

  
  


Snufkin stood, with a decided spark in his eyes. It may have been the fire reflected off his awfully reflective eyes, but Moomin recognized it as pure determination. They shared a look, and the troll stood up too, despite his drowsiness. His vagabond friend collected the dried mudballs into his pockets, which were now sturdier than muddy, baked under the afternoon sun. More often than not, they didn’t really have a need for words around the other. 

They took a path around the pond, that let them back through the forest. He tried to stay close, knowing his night vision to be quite deficient, compared to his friend’s, but the walk didn’t prove to be too difficult. In fact, it was only over an hour when they reached a flooring that was oddly stable and comfortable to step on. Then, the mumrik stopped him, speaking in a quiet but solemn spirit. 

“Remember Moomin. Tonight is one part fun, and two parts serious work.” He handed him some of the mudballs, and gestured him to follow. Soon, the boscage had cleared, and they arrived at a small town, which appeared eerily geometric in its planning. Each construction encapsulated by a large, white fence, including a large patch of grass for each, and a wide path, left between both rows of houses, felt warrily barren to his feet. He knew, instinctively and fervently, Snufkin hated this place. 

None of the houses had any light, but one on the far end of the single street. The atmosphere was entirely still and quiet, under a moonless night. They were there to vandalise the place, he was sure of it. A surge of anxiety puddled in his tongue. He turned to the vagabond, who in turn, turned to him. “Don’t worry now,” The mumrik conceded, “They’re mostly empty, save for the watchman, and he’s a wretched man, really.” 

Flashing him a smile, Snufkin held up a mudball and threw it at the house closest to them. Moomin nodded, slightly flustered by their dubious vandalism but with an eased conscience, and repeated his actions. With wary steps, they wandered deeper into this park keeper’s fantasy ghost town, throwing the germinating boulders at every possible direction. They struck walls and doors, and even some roofs, but most of their projectiles fell flatly over grass. As mysterious as a facade as they kept, both were quite enjoying themselves, showing off their aim and throwing distances, until they reached, far too quickly, the end of the street.

Moomin’s nerves were on end again, but Snufkin looked rather excited. “Now, for the fun part” The mumrik declared and, before any force could stop him, threw a mudball, with all his strength and aim combined, directly into the watchman’s window. A yell came from the inside, and with a broad smile, Snufkin held his hand and started running in the opposite direction. The moomintroll was overwhelmed with adrenaline, and soon matched Snufkin’s speed. They raced through the houses, followed by the watchman’s screams and threats, and, despite the rush, Moomin noted the little green sprouts dancing their way out of the earth. 

They ran back into the cover of the woods, making odd turns every now and again, to ensure they weren’t followed. They ran until their ribs burned, and with heavy breath and flustered faces, they continued walking, side by side. Hearing no signs of persecution, they exchanged smiles and let go of each other’s hand. Their trip back was silent. It wasn't until their campfire came into view that Moomin sighted, drawing Snufkin's attention. 

“You shouldn’t have done that.” Moomin let a hint of annoyance tint his words, but his friend only laughed. 

“If you knew what I know, you’d have joined me.” He replied. 

“Then maybe, you could tell me about it.” Sometimes, Moomin did wish they’d have more use for words in their relationship.

“Dear Moomintroll!” The mumrik exclaimed theatrically. "Then how could I surprise you?"

He could sense Snufkin’s smile through the darkness, and it proved to be contagious. A warm feeling settled in his chest, bright and merry, and he felt like dancing with joy. Instead, Moomin huffed, as if still recovering from their escape, and answered in a small voice. 

“Alright.”

✵

Moomin thought of the orchard again, as Snufkin walked down the forest path on the last day of fall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone go seedbombing ok?

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of love!
> 
> http://melpomenemaple.tumblr.com/


End file.
